Tonight’s fireside finds me introducing Dr. Jackson Crawford about whom you can read and learn at length on his website here and his YouTube channel here. He’s going to entertain and educate us with The Cowboy Hávamál.

“The text called Hávamál (literally “Words of the High One,” or perhaps “Words of the One-Eyed,” either way a reference to Odin) might be considered a Norse equivalent of the Book of Proverbs, containing as it does a series of disconnected stanzas encouraging wisdom and moderation in living one’s life.

“‘The Cowboy Hávamál’ is a condensation of the wisdom of the first, most down-to-earth part of Hávamál (often called the Gestatháttr, it includes stanzas 1-79, give or take a few) into mostly five-line stanzas of a Western American English dialect. I have not endeavored to render this dialect phonetically in a thoroughly consistent way, but only to present an ‘eye dialect’ of sorts, to suggest the dry tones of the accent behind the words.

“While my other translation of Hávamál (in my translation of the Poetic Edda) is more complete, the tone of this one seems more authentic to me. The voice is that of my grandfather, sad with wisdom and cynical with experience, which I have always heard when reading this poem in the original.” ~ The Cowboy Hávamál

And so now, Goode Reader, find comfort, something fine to sip, and if you are as blessed as I am, someone even finer to snuggle up with, and give the Goode Doctor your attention for as long as it takes to absorb the message he speaks. (more…)

As long as society persists in refusing to acknowledge, or willfully forgetting, that “equality” as entrenched in law bears absolutely no resemblance to the same word as used to describe lack of variance between the quality of individual expression of human abilities, little progress can be expected.

While, undeniably, there are groups and individuals who can lay legitimate claim to finding themselves behind the curve simply because of who they are, and not what they can do or what intrinsic value that may bestow, this is not about them. It’s about the shrill, violent, and dangerous assemblage that drowns out all intelligent discourse in favour of simply getting even with everyone they feel is better off than they are. Their view of a level playing field drags everyone down and raises no one up.

No matter how loud the shrieks of denial, observable reality, history, and context speak more loudly, and with greater force of dignity. As with confused application of the words “rear”, meaning posterior, and “rear” in reference to the process of raising a child to self-sufficient adulthood, this component in society holds that no amount of superiority or inferiority exists, nor can be permitted to exist even in theory, between individual humans, and they demand the power to make it reality.

The Myth of Equality

By LFM

Our time is one of peril fraught
As any passed before,
With those who’d make reality
Of “1984”.

Again the lesson’s fading, in
This present Orwell prequel —
Equal people are not free,
Nor are free people equal.

This beautiful rendering is all over the Internet absent any accreditation. I use it here with every desire to learn, and credit, the Artist.

“It is Winter; the wind howls and Mother Nature lies sleeping, deep under a blanket of snow. Bare branches, stark against the slate gray sky, crack against each other like knucklebones, and when the winds really howl they snap, hitting the snow covered ground with a hushed thump.

“On the Great Wheel of the Year, this is the time of Imbolc. In the Celtic seasonal calendar, Imbolc marked the beginning of the lambing season. The ewes came into their milk and the first stirrings of Spring began.

I was more than a little inspired to meditate on the time of Imbolc when Mrs. LFM and I were called upon last Thursday to put our skills to good ewes — a local sheep breeder had lambs due in mere days and needed electronic eyes and ears on her two very pregnant ladies. Here is the result, at least so far.

Hark to the Quickening.

Imbolc

By LFM

Hid beneath the frozen ground
The Maid of Imbolc stirs,
And stretching, yawns without a sound
To twitch the ear of Hare or Hound,
But nonetheless Her will resounds
In Everything that’s Hers.

Fiery Brigid casts Her light
On chambers deep and shallow,
Her children far and wide She calls,
Who creak and pop in lofty halls,
Or huddle deep in tiny balls,
That not a one lie fallow.

“And I wish to add here in all seriousness that whatever may be your scruples against the use of liquors, don’t go into the woods without whisky—rye or Scotch, according to preference. Alcohol, of course, is good for poison ivy, but whisky is better. Maybe it is because of the drugs that wicked men are said to put into it. Besides, whisky has other uses. The guides told us of one perfectly rigid person who, when he had discovered that whisky was being included in his camp supplies, had become properly incensed, and commanded that it be left at home. The guides had pleaded that he need not drink any of it, that they would attend to that part of what seemed to them a necessary camp duty, but he was petrified in his morals, and the whisky remained behind.

“Well, they struck a chilly snap, and it rained. It was none of your little summer landscape rains, either. It was a deadly cold, driving, drenching saturation. Men who had built their houses on the sand, and had no whisky, were in a bad fix. The waves rose and the tents blew down, and the rigid, fossilized person had to be carried across an overflowed place on the back of a guide, lifting up his voice meanwhile in an effort to convince the Almighty that it was a mistake to let it rain at this particular time, and calling for whisky at every step.

“It is well to carry one’s morals into the woods, but if I had to leave either behind, I should take the whisky.” ~ Essential Supplies

Today marks arrival of the first real Winter storm of any severity to land hereabouts, and naturally, “essential supplies” are much on everyone’s mind. It should therefore come as no surprise that today we’ll be talking about whisky/whiskey; or rather, someone who makes it his business to talk about it. (more…)

Whether you observe this particular day of the year as significant from a religious, secular, historic, or clueless perspective; feel it thrust upon you as something to be endured, or just don’t give two shits, there is one thing that can’t be denied where we live — the liquor stores are closed.

With this, the LFM Clan would like to wish all and sundry every bounty of the season to which your past and future life choices may have rendered you entitled.

I would also like to announce that this year’s run of A Long Winter’s Night has been unexpectedly bounced from its customary 21-31 December time slot, explaining the sudden record skip heard ’round the world the night after Day 1 went live. This verse may help explain the matter.

The cause of this speed bump, if I’m to be blunt,
Was some vital technology being a cunt,
So we rolled all the scrolls, and we set them aside,
For these holiday breakdowns just won’t be denied.

LFM, and Long Winter’s Night, will return in January 2019, so you won’t have missed a thing!

The Winter Solstice occurs at 18:23 Atlantic Time tonight. After that, the nights get shorter, the days longer, and you should curb your enthusiasm because most of the parts of Winter that will kill you haven’t happened yet.

In Elder times this was Midwinter’s Night, and while I understand the meaning, marking the longest night of the year and the start of a long slog toward Spring, from a climatic perspective, my Canadian Winters are saying, “‘MIDwinter?’ Hold my beer!”

This was the night the Wild Hunt went forth, exactly who they were and what they were hunting depending on where and when you were when you asked. We’ll get further into that as we progress through these ten days of A Long Winter’s Night.

To kick things off, here is a suitably raucous poem.

The Ride is Nigh!

By LFM

Hark! The horn! The Ride is nigh!
Hounds and Huntsmen rend the sky!
Sling your hanger! Don your furs!
Join the fray! The night is Hers!

Shun ye not the Elder Way!
Fie! The hearth’s where cowards stay!
Harken to their raucous call,
Frigg, Odin, Ravens, Wolves and all!

No matter what the hunt pursues,
This night’s for saddles, not for pews!
For quarry brought from chase to fare
A lusty feast for all who dare!

Lee Miller in the bathtub of Hitler’s Munich apartment on 30 April 1945, literally and symbolically washing off the filth of Dachau her boots have left on his mat. Click to improve the view.

“How they set it up. She cannot be shown nude (this is LIFE, not Man Ray); a figurine on the table does the trick. In front of the bath, her combat boots, ‘the dust of Dachau still on them’ according to Scherman. And at the back on the left, the portrait. It is a voodoo gesture, the sort her Surrealist friends would approve of, an all-American blend of sass, violence and sex. Nuts to you Führer! I am naked in your bath with my Jewish lover, we are taking your picture’s picture, we are stealing your life-force. The date is April 30th, 1945. In a bunker under Berlin, Hitler places a gun to his head.” ~ Lee Miller in Hitler’s Bathtub, The Economist, photograph by David Scherman

Elizabeth “Lee” Miller, Lady Penrose, was born exactly 50 years before me, on 23 April 1907. Beginning her career as a New York City fashion model in the 1920’s and ultimately moving to Paris in 1929, she came to realize her gifts and passions lay behind the lens. This article is festooned with links that will aid you, Goode Reader, in getting a grasp of the Life, indeed Lives, of this remarkable Woman, and I encourage you to explore each and every one. (more…)

“The war brought front of mind that sense of patriotism that was fundamental to his nature.

“Cavalcade had been the most overt and sustained expression to date. At the end of it the heroine, Jane Marryot, gives her toast to the Future — as she has done through the decades we’ve shared with her in the play …

“‘Let’s couple the Future of England with the Past of England. The glories and victories and triumphs that are over, and the sorrows that are over, too. Let’s drink to our sons who made part of the pattern and our hearts that died with them. Let’s drink to the spirit of gallantry and courage that made a strange Heaven out of unbelievable Hell, and let’s drink to the hope that one day this country of ours, which we love so much, will find dignity and greatness and peace again.'” ~ The Noël Coward Reader

The song I have for you today was written by Noël Coward in the recovering years following World War II, from the perspective of one who had lived through it and knew its travails firsthand. From my own, it could have been written last week with its applicability unfettered to any particular western nation. (more…)

This picture has been all over the internet lately, purported to be a photo of a Spitfire about to tumble a Vergeltungswaffe 1 (Vengeance Weapon 1), AKA V1, AKA Buzz Bomb, AKA Doodlebug. While it is a perfect depiction of a manoeuvre performed by RAF pilots during those dark times when the V1 “buzz bomb” raids were being launched against targets in England, it isn’t a photograph. Rather it’s a black and white detail taken from the beautifully rendered piece of digital art titled “Tipping Point” by Australian Artist Mark Donoghue. The uncropped original colour image is below.

All this being said, the widespread confusion over its origin does not diminish the Truth of what it represents — an undeniably intrepid moment that was played out over and over at no small risk to those who went cheerfully forth to pull it off. Before going forward, here is an actual period photograph that, while less artistic, is no less dramatic. (more…)

These pumpkins were personally selected, hand carved, and photographed by the incomparable Mrs. LFM. There hasn’t been an evil spirit hereabouts since they went live a week ago!

Well Goode Reader, as we say, it’s been swell but the swelling’s gone down. It’s time for swelling of another sort as tonight marks the 10th anniversary of the blessed Hallowe’en in 2008 when the Whynacht and Kleszczynski Clans merged to build a new dynasty. You should all be grateful we don’t hold with that hyphenated surname nonsense.

We would like to thank you all for coming and express our sincerest hopes that even the worst of you survives to meet here again for a repeat of the revelries next year.

In the spirit of short and sweet, I’ll leave you with an animation of Mrs. LFM’s handiwork in the form of a GIF she likewise created for your edification on this night of nights. Bon courage!